


The General's Secret

by TK_DuVeraun



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, No tags because they will spoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: Sequel to Gim's ficthe good thing that hurts.Written with permission for Ferdibert Week 2019 (Day 1: Hanahaki/Fairytale)
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 170





	The General's Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the good thing that hurts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492340) by [gim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gim/pseuds/gim). 



> I asked Gim if they preferred a happy or sad ending, so please don't yell at me :D

In the middle of a holy war, it was common for people to realize the true value of their companions. Feast days turned into a parade of marriages and babies were conceived. Though the war was five years old already and some of its babies had already transitioned from a desperate search for stability into starving orphans. Guilt over that, over the Hrym Territory in particular, gnawed at Ferdinand’s heart.

Better than growing in his lungs, as he suddenly and so-rudely knew. 

Ferdinand was two weeks into his cough - the wet, hacking one that Linhardt swore without elaboration he could not have caught from Hubert. Linhardt wasn’t a liar, of course, that took too much effort when he could simply tell the truth and then refuse to explain himself. Ferdinand was more persistent than his laziness, as they’d learned many times, and Linhardt’s cold remark, a humorless joke made to dissuade further inquiry explained everything.

“If you  _ did _ catch it from him, I’m curious as to what flowers you’ll cough up.”

He’d been too winded to chase Linhardt out of the library, but leaning against a chair gave him time to think and, more importantly, to remember. There was a book, one he used to read during his break on the grassy hill in the center of his morning rides. The book was from Dagda, carelessly used to pad an articulated greave with a broken spine - the book, not the armor - and missing pages, but it was frightfully interesting.

In hindsight it made perfect sense, but at eighteen when he discovered the book mixed in with his birthday gift to himself - no one else was going to give him one - that other countries might have their own folklore was a novel concept. He’d rationed them out to himself, one story per day, two when they returned from their monthly mission, but no more. Shamir had been surprisingly gentle in her refusal to fill in the gaps left by the missing pages and, in exchange for only three times the price of the book, offered to find him a complete copy.

Ferdinand was plagued with something called Hanahaki Disease. He would cough flowers until he died or his romantic feelings were returned. He was not stupid. His head was not pull of foals and pegasi chicks and yes, they were called chicks, any reasonable breeder knew that. His head was full of battleplans and the strengths and weaknesses of everyone’s battalions and maybe he had a  _ few _ equine bloodlines memorized, but only the ones formerly owned by his family. The Riegan lines had been the first to flee his mind during the war. Where was he? Right, he wasn’t stupid. 

He wasn’t stupid and nothing could be considered a coincidence in war. Was it possible that Hubert had developed Hanahaki independently of himself? Certainly, but it was wildly unlikely when the timing of his miraculous recovery coincided - oh, now that he thought of it, coincidence and coincide were related words, weren’t they? - with his falling ill with it, well, it meant one of a few things and since they were pointing their swords at the Goddess, no doubt lingered in Ferdinand’s mind.

As the days passed and Hubert’s complete indifference to him did not change, his fears solidified. When trampling mud and horse pats through his office garnered nothing more than a call for a cleaning servant, Ferdinand made a last ditch effort and spilled a glass of wine all over Hubert’s work. It would set him back several hours, maybe even a full day, but Ferdinand’s life was on the line if none creased Hubert’s forehead.

And none did. Hubert sighed and patted the ruined pages with his handkerchief before even seeming to notice Ferdinand was there. “Did you need something, von Aegir?”

“No, I suppose not.”

With the weight of the truth dragging his boots, Ferdinand turned to leave. He stopped at the door. “Actually, you wouldn’t happen to know if there are any texts in the library on Hanahaki would you?”

Hubert’s face scrunched up, then, full of more lines and wrinkles than that hideous creature Ferdinand’s step mother insisted was a dog. He leaned forward, touching wine-soaked fingertips together. “Your question is interestingly timed. I have been meaning to return the book myself.” He moved to delve into the large pocket hidden inside his cloak when he remembered the mess. “One moment.”

Ferdinand watched Hubert remove his gloves and felt the buds in his chest start to bloom. It wasn’t that he found hands particularly erotic, it was obcene intimacy of Hubert’s when no one else did. He longed to pull them close and cradle the long fingers against his cheeks until the scars took the warmth right from his soul. He was still daydreaming when Hubert held out the book.

His face was as expressionless as ever, but Ferdinand did not let it burn his heart. If those few tales on Hanahaki Disease had been accurate, Hubert’s sudden disinterest meant that- that, well, that Hubert loved  _ him _ and his own case of the illness was a direct result of his ‘curing’ it. For such an intelligent man, Hubert was certainly thick at times.

Book in hand, Ferdinand left without another word.

\---

Tears that were half frustration and half glee slipped down Ferdinand’s cheeks as he looked over the scant two pages on Hanahaki Disease. Even with Hubert’s gloves and characteristically gentle handling they showed vastly more wear than every other page combined. The second page had a magic sigil and cramped, spidery notes that could only come from one man’s pen. 

“He must have been truly desperate to use it before figuring out what this spell was,” he murmured to himself as he copied the notes onto a fresh sheet of parchment. “I suppose Hubert wouldn’t mind a cold heart, but he had to have known for weeks the source of illness and its target and yet he continued to… Oh dear.” He stopped, coughed and wiped the tears from his face. If only he’d known, he’d have reached across the table, grabbed him by the collar and kissed the sickness out of him. At least, that was how it worked in the stories. The medical text was hardly so graphic.

Once Hubert’s notes were copied - it took a second try what with the tears ruining the first attempt - Ferdinand took them and the book to Linhardt’s room. He was missing, probably napping on the battlements where no one would look for him, but Ferdinand didn’t fret. He was no practiced magician, but as every proper noble child, he had been instructed in the basics of both White and Black magic. He had just finished labelling the elements of the sigil to his satisfaction when Caspar entered.

“You’re not Lin.”

“No, I was looking for him, as well.”

Caspar squished each of the pillows on Linhardt’s bed before standing next to the desk again. “Well, his good pillow is here, so he should be back soon. Whatcha working on? This doesn’t look like- Oh hey, I’m really good at that spell.”

Ferdinand blinked.

Linhardt, who had just entered, also blinked. “Caspar… You’re not good at any spell.”

“Yes I am!” Caspar threw his fist in the air. He jabbed the paper, nearly tearing a hole in it. “My mother hates mud, remember? Like, really hates it.”

Linhardt rubbed his chin and examined the spell. “She does, at that.”

“Right! And it was easier to learn a cleaning spell than to not get dirty.” Caspar pulled a dirt clod off his boot and held it up. “So you just go like this and…” He stuck out his tongue as he traced the sigil in the air from memory. The dirt clod disappeared and with it all of the mud tracked in by the three of them.

Ferdinand wasn’t sure who was more shocked between himself and Linhardt, but he did know to whom it mattered more. “This,  _ this _ is a cleaning spell?”

“I think it’s more of relative discorporation spell.” Linhardt turned the page horizontally and studied the markings. “This could be invaluable for removing blood from the-”

“No! No, no, no! Don’t do that!” Caspar’s skin paled to whiter than a mid-winter snow. “Big mistake! Big- _ big _ mistake.” He drew a quick circle in the air. “Remember when I broke my arm? No, the left one. Anyway, I thought I’d clean up the blood to help out, right? But it gets rid of  _ all _ of the blood in the designated area. Not just the stuff on the floor. I would have died if the housekeeper hadn’t seen me do it and reversed it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Linhardt muttered at the same time Ferdinand shouted, “It’s reversible?”

“Yeah, here, let me…” He stuck out his tongue as he drew. “I used to frame my brother for stuff all of the time.”

“Of course you did.”

Hands shaking, Ferdinand took the page, ink still-wet. “What do I…?” Only when he coughed did he realize he was crying. He tried clearing his throat as best he could. “What do I use as the, ah, focus?”

“Nothing. It just puts back the last thing it removed.”

“What if the, ahem, objects removed were inside a body?”

“It just puts back the last thing it removed,” Caspar repeated. Otherwise my blood would be splattered all over Bergliez territory. Let me tell you, that is a difficult spell to cast when you’re dying of blood loss. The housekeeper had to drag my hand through the entire thing.”

And then Ferdinand was gone, racing through the monastery. He wasn’t even at stage two, he had plenty of time to fix things, but he couldn’t waste another instant knowing that- that he loved Hubert. And those feelings were returned.

(It never occurred to him that Hubert might try the spell again to see what it actually did, which would have left his feelings and their flowery incarnations lost forever, but thankfully that didn’t occur to Hubert either.)

A sharp kick from his sabaton threw open the door to Hubert’s office. Ferdinand grabbed the soldier making their report by the collar and belt before physically throwing them out of the room. He closed the ruined door and shoved Hubert’s extra chair - one designed to be purposefully uncomfortable and wonderful for interrogation - against it.

The forcible indifference warred with outrage on Hubert’s face, leaving him stunned and confused. Ferdinand sat bodily in his lap and grabbed his wrist, using his superior weight to block Hubert’s movements and his hair to keep him from seeing what was on the page. Like Caspar’s housekeeper, he dragged Hubert’s arm through the motions, with significantly more resistance and growled threats. The light from the magic shot through Ferdinand and back into Hubert’s chest.

In the heavy silence, Ferdinand climbed off him and stood close, so close, too close, just close enough to feel the heat from Hubert’s body.

Hubert curled in on himself as the flowers returned to his lungs. When he looked up to meet Ferdinand’s eyes, he was a broken man riddled with pain and helpless feelings. His voice was little more than a croak when he finally made it work. “What have you done?”

With a feather-light touch belied by the calluses on his hands, Ferdinand held Hubert’s cheeks and kissed him. All feelings and no depth between their chapped lips and wet eyes. He felt his soul escape his chest through his mouth, not in fright, but to silently cling to Hubert’s. “Saving us both,” he said, when he could.

“Your cough,” realization cut through the air and Hubert’s eyes. “Fools, both of us.”

Pulling a hand - gloved, but close enough to his cheek - Ferdinand spoke with all of the feelings he usually forced back behind his teeth. “But alive and… Together?”

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> The secret is that Caspar can do magic, lmao.


End file.
